Two drunken Bonds
by The Libran Iniquity
Summary: Sequel (of sorts) to 'Three little words'. Our two intrepid senior officers do a little male bonding... with the help of a fair amount of Anaran ale... (NON-SLASH)


A/N: Sequel to 'Three little words'. The drunken Bonds reference comes from my ST:Voyager story. Again, go see my profile page for a disclaimer, as I do not own the following; James Bond, Trip Tucker, Malcolm Reed, Star Trek et al... but the ale's still mine *hic*

Also, thank you to Visage, TripGirl05, JadziaKathryn, Archer'sEnsign, Chaotic Boredom, Spookyslayer, and Lora Helen for reviewing _Three little words  
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"So there I was, thinkin' I really oughta do somethin' about the plasma coils before they started overheatin' again when this woman walks in."

"Let me guess," Malcolm interjected sarcastically. "She just _happened_ to be an old acquaintance of yours, and it took between two and three minutes for the two of you to become reacquainted again."

Trip frowned. "Don't be so cynical, Loo-tenant. It really doesn't become you."

"But I was right, was I not?"

Trip smirked. "Maybe."

Malcolm sighed. "I'll take that one as a yes, then."

"Jealous?" Trip asked, grinning.

"Not in the slightest. If you want to waste your life chasing women, then that's your decision."

"I'm guessin' you can't top that, otherwise you wouldn't be sayin' all that."

Now it was Malcolm's turn to smirk. "That's for me to know, Commander."

Trip frowned. "We really should quit the rank thing. We're on shore leave, rapidly gettin' drunk. I'm Malcolm, you're Trip."

"No, I'm Malcolm and you're Trip. Good lord, you're drunk already."

"And you're not?" Trip enquired, watching the other man through an empty bottle of ale.

"Not at all. I'm sure you may have guessed already, but we British can hold our drink. It would take more than a few bottles of this to get me legless, I assure you," Malcolm replied, indicating the empty bottles littering the room.

"Whatever," Trip dismissed the comment with a wave of his bottle. "So," he continued, staring pointedly at the lieutenant. "The last woman you were with. I want who, when and where."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. Did he dare make something up? No, it would probably come back to haunt him; Commander Tucker was notorious in that regard. Better to tell the truth. That way he could deny all knowledge and hope to hell that Travis Mayweather never found out. Telling Travis something was practically tantamount to a public announcement via the comm system, the amount of ensigns and enlisted crewmen he was friendly with.

"Her name was Stefanie. She was a cadet back at Starfleet Academy along with me; we went through weapons training together."

"Oh no," Trip groaned. "I can see where this is goin'."

Malcolm continued heedless. "Towards the end of the course we were shown a model of the impulse torpedo launchers that were going to be integrated into Enterprise's armoury."

A hand stopped his monologue. "Let me guess," Trip mimicked. "It was you, her and the launcher. Or should that be you and her _on_ the launcher?"

"Don't be so cynical, Commander," Malcolm replied calmly. He looked sideways at his friend. "It really doesn't become you."

"Very funny. I think we should change the subject now." Trip leaned heavily to one side and pulled two bottles off the table, and passed one to the lieutenant. They opened them, and Trip offered his up in a toast. "To women," he recited with a lop-sided grin. "Long may they continue to confuse and amaze us."

"I'll sing to that."

That stopped Trip mid-drink. "You can sing?" he asked incredulously.

Another smirk. "Maybe."

"Ah, quit echoin' me," Trip grumbled. "It's givin' me a headache."

"No, I believe that would be the ale, sir."

"I'm goin' to pretend you didn't say that, Loo-tenant. So," Trip continued, changing tack again. "Who's Stuart?"

"Pardon me?" Malcolm asked, confused.

"Your middle name's Stuart. I'm guessin' if your folks are anythin' like you then they gave you that name for a reason."

"Oh." Comprehension dawned on Malcolm's face. "Stuart Coghlan, my grandfather on my mother's side. The Reeds were Navy men, the Coghlans were not."

"So what were they?" Trip asked, his interest piqued despite the alcohol in his bloodstream.

"Various assorted things. My uncle Robert works in communications, I believe, and my grandfather - Stuart - was a doctor."

"Like Phlox?"

"No. He didn't do interspecies or anything like that. He was a general practitioner."

"What's that mean in English?" Trip asked.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. His friend was indeed drunk. "He practised general medicine. Family medicine," he added by way of explanation. "He … he delivered both of my mother's children."

It took a moment for this statement to sink into Trip's ale-befuddled mind. He then set his empty bottle down on the floor, then focused on Malcolm, some kind of emotion running through his eyes. "He delivered you?"

"Yes."

"Wow." Trip was, well, astounded. With the possible exception of a cousin back home, he didn't think he'd ever had anyone talk so frankly to him before. Not even Jonathan talked like this with him, and they'd been friends for years. He leaned back in his chair. "So they named you after him?"

"Yes."

Something in that single word made Trip stop and consider for a second. As far as he was aware, and even he knew his short-term memory wasn't great right now, he had heard the lieutenant refer to his grandfather in the past tense only … _'He was a doctor' _… hadn't he?

"Malcolm, are you okay?" he asked, with genuine concern.

His friend looked back at him. "I'm fine, Trip," he said softly. "Just fine."

"Want another drink?" Trip offered.

"Okay."

He passed over another bottle of the Anaran ale. "So come on," he pressed. "How long did it last with Stefanie? Knowin' you, it was the launcher every time."

Finally Malcolm smiled, and his face took on a more mischievous look. "You underestimate me, Commander," he said. "It wasn't _only_ the launchers we got a look at."

Trip shook his head. "Not the cannons as well?" he asked in mock disbelief, a hand clutching the general area of his heart.

Malcolm's grin grew wider, if that was at all possible. "After the torpedo launchers, we were shown the prototype phase cannon that was eventually added to Enterprise."

"_The_ prototype cannon?" Trip's eyes were wide. God, what else had this man been hiding?

"I don't recall there being another prototype before we left Spacedock," Malcolm remarked dryly, a part of him enjoying the look on the commander's face. Shock, disbelief and embarrassment made a rather interesting combination. He finished the ale in one last gulp, and looked back at his friend. Bad idea. Trip's mouth was hanging open; he seemed to be doing a rather good fish impression, which of course set Malcolm off laughing.

The alcohol must have finally reached his head, because he couldn't stop laughing.

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You're drunk … a little voice in the back of his head argued. Malcolm barely had time to register the thought when his eyes closed and he knew no more.


End file.
